Dead Advice
by Greenladie
Summary: James Joyce's the Dead from his series of stories The Dubliners Gabriel Conroy's wife has left him for another man and his despair has led him to London and a strange gathering of deceased Romantic Poets. Oneshot.


Dead Advice

Gabriel Conroy gazed bleary-eyed at the row of empty shot glasses lined up in front of him on the worn mahogany of the bar. He raised a hand feebly, gesturing to the barman. "Another shot of whiskey." The barman raised his eyebrows sceptically before placing another shot glass in front of the Irishman. Gabriel had been sitting at the bar for nearly three days trying to drown his sorrows in the tiny glasses of liquor. _Why do they have to make them so damn small?_ He thought bitterly as he tossed back the entire shot of whiskey. He held up his hand to ask for another, and then thought better of it. "Can I just have a bottle to take with me?"

The barman, a large blond man seemingly left over from the days when Saxons had come to Britain, shook his head. "You've had about enough for one night, I'd say." He said stubbornly, his voice thick with the accent of London's East End.

Gabriel dug in his coat pocket and found a pound and six shillings. "Can you just give me a bottle? I'll be out of your hair then and you won't have me hanging around the bar scaring off your customers."

The barman eyed the silver pound greedily. "Well, having an Irishman such as yourself sitting here does tend to frighten off my regulars…" He stared at the coin next to the row of shots and made up his mind. "Right, I'll take the quid, but only if you get out of my bar."

Gabriel knew that paying a pound for a bottle of whiskey was ridiculous, but at that point he didn't care. _What have I got left to live for?_ He asked himself gloomily as he staggered out onto the street, clutching the bottle to his chest.

As he stumbled backward onto the sidewalk he ran into a very old man making his way down the street with the help of an ornate wooden cane. Gabriel helped the man to his feet, apologizing for knocking him over.

The man waved a hand dismissively. "In all honesty, you seem to have been drinking and therefore most likely did not even see me coming." He plucked the bottle from Gabriel's clutching hands and smiled knowingly. "Ah, I see Mr. Bertram gave you the good stuff. You must have made quite an impression on him."

Gabriel shrugged. "I ought to have gotten good whiskey. I paid him a pound for it."

The man looked at him from beneath large bushy white eyebrows. "Well son, you must be even more drunk than I thought. No one in their right frame of mind would pay a pound for a bottle of whiskey."

Gabriel plucked the bottle from the old man and settled on the curb indignantly. "What's the use? My life is over anyway. I've nothing left to live for."

"Except that bottle of whiskey." The old man chuckled, pointing to the bottle that Gabriel was still clutching to his chest like a newborn baby. The man stood up straighter, as if he'd just come to an important decision. "Get up." He tapped the younger man unceremoniously on the head. "I've got a meeting to go to, and I have a feeling I should bring you along. Follow me."

Rubbing his abused head gingerly, Gabriel got up to follow the old man. _He's quite fast for such an old man._ Gabriel thought as he took long strides to keep up as the man whipped around corners and down alleys into the heart of London. Finally he stopped at a somewhat decayed brick building and rapped three times on the small wooden door. A slat in the door opened and Gabriel could see a pair of eyes with eyebrows nearly as bushy and white as his companion's. "Is that you Blake?"

"Yes, of course it is!" Replied the old man gaily. "I've brought a live one with me. Should make things interesting."

The eyes in the door narrowed with suspicion. "I don't know. How do you know he won't tell anyone about us?"

The old man, Blake, by the sound of it, chuckled merrily. "Don't worry. He's so ploughed he wouldn't remember his own mother's name come tomorrow morning."

"Oh, alright…" The door opened up to show a modest room filled with dark wood furniture and a roaring fireplace. Three men sat in large armchairs by the hearth and a fourth made his way back towards the others.

"Don't mind Keats. He gets a bit… suspicious, sometimes." Blake walked into the room leaning heavily on his cane. He waved to the group of men around the fireplace. "Good evening Gentlemen. Might I introduce a Mr. Gabriel Conroy."

"Hello!"

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Conroy!"

"Glad to have you with us!"

Blake smiled. "Let me introduce you to our lovely company. This is Mr. Percy Shelley," he pointed to one of the men sitting in the armchairs, "Mr. William Wordsworth, Mr. George Gordon - Lord Byron and of course you've already met my dear friend Mr. John Keats."

Mr. Keats leered at Gabriel from his seat beside fire. "I still don't trust him."

"Come now," Lord Byron protested, "He's an Irishman, not a Turk. I'm sure he's perfectly trustworthy."

"True enough, yes." Blake turned to Gabriel. "And of course, I am William Blake." Mr. Blake bowed slightly, still leaning heavily on his cane for support.

Gabriel gazed at the group of men in astonishment. _It can't be true…_ he thought as he openly stared at the men before him, _They couldn't be…_

"Dear fellow is in shock, isn't he?" Mr. Wordsworth said concernedly.

"Well, what did you expect?" Mr. Keats retorted. "We're dead, aren't we? What man wouldn't be shocked to stand in the presence of the deceased."

"But we're hardly shocking," Mr. Shelley pointed out, "I'm sure he knows of us."

"I doubt it, those Irish barbarians, with their potatoes and their ridiculous language. What is it? I seem to have forgotten…"

"Gaelic, my dear Mr. Keats. It's called Gaelic." Mr. Blake answered genially.

Mr. Keats shrugged and scowled. "Whatever it is, I don't like the sound of it. Unnatural, if you ask me. _Heathen_."

Lord Byron let out a hearty guffaw. "My dear Mr. Keats, I thought I'd never see the day when you would describe something as heathen."

Gabriel let himself slide to the floor, unable to handle the scene before him. "I must've drunk myself silly…" he said, more to himself than to anyone else. "I've gotten so drunk I've begun to see things and hear things that aren't there…"

"Nonsense." Mr. Keats snapped. "We might be dead, but we most certainly exist."

"Calm down Mr. Keats," Mr. Shelley intoned soothingly, "He's simply trying to get his head around it."

Mr. Keats settled back in his chair, a disgruntled expression playing across his face. "Imagine, the likes of him called me a figment of his subconscious. As if his subconscious could dream up the likes of us five."

"Now, Mr. Conroy," Mr. Blake interrupted, "I brought you here because I thought you might be needing some help." He turned to address the others, "I found him drowning himself in a bottle of whiskey outside Bertram's Pub in the East End."

"Well honestly, what do you expect from an Irishman?" Mr. Keats muttered to himself.

"Go on then Mr. Conroy," Mr. Wordsworth said comfortingly, "Tell us about her."

Gabriel looked up at the five white-haired men surrounding him. "What do you mean, her?"

"Well, it is a woman who's troubling you, isn't it?" Lord Byron said while examining his fingernails.

Gabriel shrugged sadly. "Well, if you must know, yes, it is a woman. My wife. Or, the woman who was my wife."

"Ah," Mr. Shelley nodded knowingly, "Did she die then? Perhaps we can arrange for you to see her again."

"No. God no, nothing like that…" Gabriel buried his face in his hands, "Greta left me. It turns out she never loved me at all."

"Everyone's got a sob story," Mr. Keats rolled his eyes wearily, "The difference is the rest of us don't try to drown ourselves in whiskey."

"No!" Gabriel cried out, "You don't understand! I loved her! But, she… he loved her more."

"I'm not following…" Mr. Wordsworth pulled a pipe from his breast pocket, a bemused expression on his face. "Why don't you start from the beginning, Mr. Conroy."

"When my wife was young, she was in love with a boy named Michael Furey, and he was in love with her. He had a lovely voice and he used to sing the Irish airs to her while they went out walking. Then one day, shortly before Greta was due to leave for Dublin, he caught ill. On the last day before she was to leave he came in the freezing rain to see her off. Greta got a letter several weeks later saying that Michael had died. She was terribly depressed by this and his memory remained with her throughout her life."

"What a terribly sad story…" Mr. Shelley exclaimed, "Mary would appreciate it. I must tell her of it when I go back."

"Oh don't bother your wife with such tittle tattle." Mr. Keats said indignantly. "Let Mr. Conroy finish the story. I have a hunch he's not finished yet."

Gabriel sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, Mr. Keats is right. Well, after some time, Greta married me, and I thought we had a wonderful life together. That is, until a Christmas party my two aunts had about six months ago. They had invited a certain Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, a new tenor singer in Aunt Julie's choir. Only it turns out that Mr. D'Arcy was not Mr. D'Arcy at all, but a certain Mr. Michael Furey. Apparently he hadn't died, but had only been severely weakened by his bought with the illness. In fact he was quite weak for several years afterwards. But when Greta did not come back he plunged into deep despair. Eventually he became a singer, just as he'd always talked about with her, and finally, last autumn, he came to Dublin in search of Greta. When he told her who he was she was at first angry with him for not writing and telling her that he was still alive. But she was too happy at him being alive to be angry for very long. Soon after she approached me about getting an annulment, saying our marriage was not truly real because she had been in love with Michael the entire time. They're living out on the coast now. Happy. Together. And I'm left here, drinking whiskey until my life is drowned in liquor."

The men sat quietly for a moment. "Well, that is quite a sobering story you tell, Mr. Conroy." Mr. Blake remarked solemnly. "I think every man goes through a time when his will is tested against harsh times. Am I right gentlemen?" He turned to ask the others.

Mr. Shelley nodded. "Yes, I most certainly agree. Hard times make for tougher hearts."

Lord Byron pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket. "I concur. But what have you to complain about Mr. Shelley? If memory serves, you and Mary fled England when you were the objects of ridicule."

Mr. Shelley sat up, slightly irritated. "Well, there's nothing that says taking some time to re-evaluate yourself is wrong."

"Yes I'm sure that time was a real help to you." Lord Byron chuckled, "You took your sweet time evaluating yourself and in the end you didn't change your opinions at all."

"Well that hardly fair…" Mr. Shelley folded his arms crossly. "You were right there with me, living in the Italian countryside. And then, if you please, you went off to war with the Turks and got yourself killed."

"Be nice!" Mr. Wordsworth chided. "You know he's still a bit sensitive about that!"

"Might we return our attention to the dilemma of Mr. Conroy's situation?" Mr. Blake announced, his voice slightly louder than the other bickering gentlemen. Sufficiently embarrassed, the three deceased poets quieted. "Now then, it seems to me that you were indeed trapped in a false marriage Mr. Conroy. Was there anything you wish you had done differently? I have come to find that despair often comes from personal dissatisfaction rather than the outer sort."

Gabriel shrugged numbly. "I suppose I just wish there was something I could have done to make her love me. Love me as much, if not more, than she had loved Michael."

Silently Mr. Keats got up and crossed the room. "Well isn't that a load of bullocks."

Gabriel looked at the old man in shock. Mr. Shelley stared outraged at Mr. Keats. "Honestly! Why don't you try to be a bit more sensitive! The love of his life has just left him for another!"

Mr. Keats softened slighted. "That's not what I meant," he said wearily. "What I meant was, that's not what's really bothering him." He turned and looked Gabriel straight in the eye. "Is it Mr. Conroy?"

Gabriel looked at the man curiously. _What the devil is he talking about?_

"Passion, Mr. Conroy. I'm talking about passion!"

Mr. Blake nodded. "Yes, quite."

"There is no point in doing anything unless you are absolutely passionate about it." Lord Byron intoned taking another swig from his flask. "If he has nothing else, a man should have passion."

"I don't understand…" Gabriel said plaintively, a confused expression apparent on his face.

"What we are trying to say," Mr. Blake said kindly, "Is that perhaps, on some deep level, _you_ did not love Greta."

"What are you talking about?" Gabriel asked, outraged. "I loved that woman more than any other! She was my wife!"

"Ah, but that doesn't have much to do with anything, now does it?" Mr. Shelley remarked softly.

"It's all about the chase." Mr. Keats said firmly. "If you truly felt as passionately as you claim, you would have gone on chasing her forever. It doesn't matter that you married her. What matters is that you still loved her enough to pursue her."

"No, you're wrong Mr. Keats." Lord Byron cut in. "Passion is about being willing to give absolutely everything for the thing you feel passionate about, whether it be a person, a belief or a cause."

"Think Mr. Conroy." Mr. Wordsworth said patiently. "Did you really, I mean _really_ love your wife."

Gabriel looked out as the men but not really seeing them. Instead, he saw reflections of his own life, his life with Greta. Everything they had been through, everything they had done together. And he realized "No." Gabriel said softly, more to himself than to anyone else, "I didn't. I suppose didn't really love her. I thought she was the most beautiful creature on earth, I thought she had a wonderful laugh and a fascinating personality and I did love her on some level, but I suppose I did not feel the love for her that Michael felt. Or even, the love she felt for Michael."

"Did you pursue her?" Mr. Keats asked softly.

"No."

"Would you have died for her?" Lord Byron asked.

"No."

Mr. Blake patted Gabriel on the back. "Well, I suppose you have learned something then, haven't you?"

Without speaking, Gabriel simply nodded. _I should feel horrible,_ he mused as Mr. Blake led him to the door, _but I don't. I only feel… relieved._ Gabriel smiled as the door closed behind him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Conroy." Mr. Keats came out, holding the bottle of whiskey. "You left this."

Gabriel took the bottle. "Thank you."

Mr. Keats smiled, for the first time that evening. "Find your passion, Gabriel. Find it and pursue it, because the real love is in the chase."


End file.
